


Misery

by shiphitsthefan



Series: SPN Coldest Hits [4]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Gen, POV Second Person, Surprise Ending
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-17
Updated: 2016-10-17
Packaged: 2018-08-23 00:53:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 990
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8307571
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shiphitsthefan/pseuds/shiphitsthefan
Summary: You weren’t supposed to be here, but there hadn’t been enough room in the caravan. The rest of your family climbed in, packing only what they needed to survive, moving quickly. There had been no warning, no time, no plan to leave. After all, the family’s lived here for seven seasons now with nary a peep from the outside world. Everyone had grown complacent, but you all should’ve known better.In the end, the hunters always find you.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [aerialiste](https://archiveofourown.org/users/aerialiste/gifts).



> All of my love to my dear friend [aerialiste](http://archiveofourown.org/users/aerialiste/pseuds/aerialiste/works) for looking over this, cheering me on, and being a top-quality human being. <3

You weren’t supposed to be here, but there hadn’t been enough room in the caravan. The rest of your family climbed in, packing only what they needed to survive, moving quickly. There had been no warning, no time, no plan to leave. After all, the family’s lived here for seven seasons now with nary a peep from the outside world. Everyone had grown complacent, but you all should’ve known better.

In the end, the hunters always find you.

The family’s grown since it set up camp in the woods, collecting like-minded stragglers, cast-offs from the community you all fled. You’ve been here longer than most, but everyone knew who would stay behind. It’s more likely that you can survive on your own--your instincts are sharper, and you blend in more easily than the rest. With your injured foot, however, all bets are off. Still, you understand. It isn’t the first time you’ve been abandoned, though this time may be the last.

So, one by one, your family hugs you, kisses you, and says goodbye. You sit and watch the caravan pull farther and farther away into the night, until all that’s left is a dissipating cloud of dust, broken twigs, and flattened grass.

And then, you wait.

It doesn’t take long. They clamber through the underbrush like the lumbering beasts they are. The hunters never rest, never stop; when one dies, two more take their place. It’s been the end times for so many years now--the hunters bring war and death wherever they pass--and the community grows weary and desperate with each passing month. People grow uneasy and anxious; they become more willing to take greater risks in the name of survival and revenge.

They shout to each other, complicated words and hand signals that you will never understand. It never gets any easier, being left behind, but you can buy your former family time to escape. They fed you, healed you, comforted you; this, at least, you can do for them in return.

While the hunters advance--how stealthy they imagine themselves to be!--you stand your ground. Hunters may be deadly, but they hide and cower, drink too much and think too little. The fact that, from week to week, they _still_ win is both nauseating and insulting. But you are no coward. You have a dignity and strength they can never hope to acquire.

A few more moments, and they’ll clear the treeline. The woods reject them, the whole world finding them anathema, even among their own kind. You can see them, but they cannot see you, not yet. One last, long look at the place you’ve called your home for so long--the still-smoldering fire pit where the family took meals and sang songs; the prayer hut, burlap door torn down in haste; a single ear from a child’s stuffed toy.

There is no time for grief among warriors, and you have spent too long dwelling on the ruins already.

The hunters charge through the trees.

You run straight toward them.

And they aren’t expecting that, the fearlessness and certainty to your step. You dart around the men that reek of whisky and gun oil and blood. Your strategy causes the party to split as you’d hoped, half turning to follow you while the others search the camp. The forest invites you into its arms, deep and dark, wet and winding. You smile as the air rushes past, hearing them curse and splutter behind you.

Before too long, though, your wound becomes more and more difficult to run on. You slow down, but keep moving forward, hoping that the hunters will grow weary, too. The sun begins to slip through the trees, so you chase its ascent. There is no sound behind you, at all--no boys, no birds, no breeze.

You keep running.

Day turns to dusk once more. Your foot bleeds like breadcrumbs, and you’re too tired to see more than the vague outlines of the trees. It was inevitable, really, that you would burst onto civilization unaware. The Great Out comes rushing in; the ground is now hard and unforgiving; the stars shine in your eyes, growing closer and closer and cl

 

* * *

 

You open your eyes. It was not your time, though you feel more broken and worn than you did before. But the hunters are gone, and your family is safe, and that is enough.

There’s a deafening _clang_ behind you, like the banging of the water drums in camp when the wind grew rough. Footsteps. A hand.

“Oh God,” comes a voice from above you. “Don’t be dead. _Please,_ don’t be dead.” Whether the man is friend or foe, you cannot tell, but the first hand is joined by another, checking you for injuries. “Okay. Okay, alive then.” The man exhales in relief, then says, “Please don’t bite me. Please don’t have rabies.”

You look up for the first time. The man has long hair, and it reminds you of your second companion. They are crouched but, from the size of their feet and the length of their legs, you know that they must be a giant.

“Easy,” they say, scooping you up in one arm, “easy. I’m not going to hurt you. Just...gotta figure out where there’s a vet around here.”

Now that you are close to the man’s mouth, the voice sounds...familiar. You heard it once, back when you were younger and still afraid of the world. This man took your first companion away, led them off with another. A partner, shorter but older. They took your friend, and none of them returned.

Oh.

Oh _, no._

You look down over the man’s arm; the whine claws its way from your throat, and there aren’t enough ear scratches and thrown sticks and “good dog”s in the world to make up for the sleek black car that’s hit you.

 _Fuck,_ you think to yourself. _Winchesters._

**Author's Note:**

> I've been wanting to write this exact fic for a while, but kept shying away from the idea. Many thanks to [SPN Coldest Hits](http://spncoldesthits.tumblr.com/tagged/rules) for finally making me write it. :D
> 
> You can find me on my [tumblr](http://shiphitsthefan.tumblr.com/). I also chirp occasionally witty things on [twitter](https://twitter.com/shiphitsthefan).
> 
> I don't compete in the traditional spirit of Coldest Hits, using the monthly prompts to challenge myself, instead. Thus, as always, kudos and comments validate my existence. <3
> 
> (I have, however, now that the contest is over, deleted the ridiculous seven pounds of spam comments this fic received. Seriously, Coldest Hitters. What the actual fuck.)


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